Blood pressure skyrockets as the blade slowly cuts across his skin, leaving another slice that will forever stand as a reminder as to the fact that he can still feel. The word “numb” standing in as a permanent record to show that humanity is cruel, so cruel that in order to remember that one is a member thereof, a sacrifice of blood is constantly necessary. The warm, viscous liquid slowly trickles down his wrist and off his arm into a pool of red that once again stains the hardwood floor. The physical pain means nothing to him because it finally distracts him from the pain that wears down upon his soul, the burden that he carries with him without end. He watches each red drop falls at a rate that seems almost like slow motion, causing the smallest ripples in the red sea of release. The once tedious planning for clean-up is now second nature to him, from sliding the couch over the puddle of blood, to hopping into the shower to let the blood wash away.

He arises to another morning, another hour full of worried looks from his parents, and another hour of tortuous conversation with his moronic brother. The day inches by, slowing with each stare he receives, and with each comment about his ever-present long sleeves. What is class, but another waste of time in tedious activity, in an attempt to whip the senseless masses into that which resembles intelligence? True intelligence, not just a bland imitation of it, is as rare to find as a CD-player in an antique shop. He ponders whether the few people who make him smile, the few people that keep him always dragging himself into that hellhole, that waste of time, are truly worth it. Today they are, and will remain to be so, at least until the bell that releases everyone like rats from a cage rings.

He ritualistically, almost out of routine, churns out yet another poem, another short story, some attempt at self-expression that he can never quite adequately convey. He pokes and prods, rearranges, until his literary endeavor is to his degree of satisfaction, or at least that which it is for the day. The familiar scent of burning paper reaches his nostrils as yet another one of his writings is engulfed by the flame, as he feels renewed by an almost clean slate. This is the absolute most restful, the most calm that he ever gets the opportunity to feel, when he feels the most like he might be able to open up. But, as soon as he thinks back upon that day, or any other day for the past few years, he would immediately close and stop any feeling that attempted to get through. After all that, all the attempts to return to humanity, he finds himself letting the blood wash away again.

Once again, he drags himself out of bed, awaking to ceaseless beeping of the world’s most annoying alarm clock. This morning seems different, the stares of his parents are shorter, more self- absorbed, his brother avoids him; something has transpired, but he doesn’t know what. A guidance counselor takes him to her office the moment that he gets off the bus, instantly arousing his suspicions and making him all the more wary as to emotional assault. Teachers have been talking amongst themselves, noticing little patterns in his writings, in his manner of speaking, which aroused suspicion among them. He is blunt; wasting no time and quickly asks how any of this senseless blather applies to him. She asks a series of questions, all in a feeble attempt to get inside the now impenetrable walls of his true self, of his ever numbed emotions. She has failed, and now that he knows that people are on to him he will be all the more careful in hiding the slices that get him through his bland, emotionless waste of a life.

Upon arrival home, he needs that release, that reminder as to his humanity, all the more than he normally does. The music plays loudly as the red pool that he has grown so fond of grows once more over the red stain that perpetually mars the floor as the scars mar his wrists. A knock at the door goes unnoticed. He hears a scream of shock as he looks into the terrified eyes of his mother. This lifting of an emotional burden, this putting down of the never ending numbness becomes a whirling torrent of fear and confusion all in one second. He sits, bandaged, at the kitchen table while his mother calls all the people she needs to in order to lull herself back into the false sense of security she always seems to slip back into. He slips upstairs, unnoticed by the blaring sirens that are meant for him, and lets the blood wash away for one last time.